The Catholic World, Vol. 06, October, 1867 to March, 1868.

by Various

"Couture's Book."

Perhaps it would have been more according to rule to have headed this article, "Painting-Room Method and Conversations," which is the title the author gives his work. But as it is invariably spoken of and thought of as "Couture's Book," I have but followed in the wake of others. The fact is, this is no regular book; it is but a series of printed talks, so characteristic, so entirely stamped with the individuality of the writer, that those who know him recognize his peculiar expressions, his eccentricities of manner, and almost seem to see his familiar gestures through its pages. Therefore it seems perfectly natural to call it "Couture's Book."

Couture, as all those well know who are at all familiar with modern French art, is one of those who has done most to raise and invigorate it. His great picture, the Roman Orgie, is in the principal room of the Luxembourg, of which it is one of the greatest ornaments. It is not my province to criticise him as an artist; others, far more capable, have given a favorable verdict long since. My purpose is to speak of his book, and to say something of the author personally, as the best means of understanding it.

In his tenth chapter, M. Couture gives us an interesting glimpse of his early days, and of the gradual development of his powers. All through life, one of his most striking characteristics seems to have been his utter inability to learn by rule; as a child, he was looked upon as almost a dunce, and his elder brother, who, as he expresses it, was "nibbling at Latin," looked down upon him from his height. From his earliest years, however, he had the passion of reproduction. Before he understood the use of pencils, he would cut out, with his mother's scissors, the outlines of all he saw. Later, he became painter-in-ordinary to all the boys of the neighborhood, and, by the help of the little men and women he drew and painted, became rich in tops and marbles. But, when his father, a man of remarkable intelligence for his station in life, placed him with a drawing-master, the "petit Thomas" could do nothing; he did not understand his master's instructions; he could not copy the models placed before him; he longed for nature, and for liberty to imitate just what struck his fancy. The result was, that the drawing-master, after a few months' trial, declared him to be wanting in capacity, and he was taken away!

The child is father to the man, and all through life, the cause of nearly all his trials and disappointments, and perhaps, too, of his successes, has been this inability to subject himself to established rules. He entered the atelier of Gros, as student, and fell sick with disappointment when, on a certain occasion, spurred on by the master's encouragement and advice, he produced what he calls a most pitiable failure; while, on the other hand, several of his attempts—the unaided works of his own inspiration—excited great admiration, and turned the public attention on the young painter. Finally, he determined to renounce master and rules, to trust to his own instinct, and to turn to public opinion for judgment. He succeeded; the public recognized and appreciated him. Nevertheless, this same disregard for established criterions, for academic dignities, etc., has proved the source of much annoyance to him; and, for some years past, M. Couture has refused to exhibit, or to bring himself forward in any way, as an artist. Abandoning himself to the joys and cares of a happy home-circle, enjoying his modest fortune as only a man who has known poverty, and has fought hard against it for nearly thirty years can, he lets people say what they will of him, and, with sturdy independence, works when he likes, and at what he likes. Of course, all sorts of reports circulate about him, and I have been told more than once, "Oh! as for Couture, he is dead; he can produce nothing more."

Not long ago, an artist, a firm friend of M. Couture, took me to see him. We were told by the concierge that monsieur was at home, au premier, à droite. So au premier, à droite we went; rang; the door was opened by a respectable man-servant; but just behind him was an extraordinary looking personage; it was M. Couture himself, who, with the curiosity of a child, wanted to see who was there. Imagine a figure scarcely five feet high, immensely fat—stout is not the word—with a red scarf tied round the huge waist, the shirt-collar open, untrammelled by any vestige of a cravat, and luxuriating in a sort of loose woollen jacket. There he stood, shaking his friend's hand, slapping him on the back, a hearty, kindly, puffing, panting engine of humanity. When I heard him talk, however, I forgot his unpoetic exterior; the flashing eye, the wonderful power of mimickry, the modulating of the voice, fascinated me. I have seen many good actors, but none who possessed the art of bringing scenes, people, expressions, so completely before one, as M. Couture. Everything he touches upon becomes a picture, color and truth everywhere. This is eminently the case with his book; he himself could only be taught through pictures—brought to his mind by the colors of the painter, the words of a writer, or the harmonies of the musician; through pictures he instructs others.

But to return to my visit. We were hospitably dragged into his den; a simple room joining the parlor, with no pretensions of being a studio about it. There was a picture on the easel, casts and drawings scattered around, an admirable portrait of his father, for whom he had an unbounded admiration, and a charming little flower-piece which was the bouquet he presented to his wife on her birthday; a few flowers in a glass, nothing more, but these few flowers, with the dewy softness and fragrance of nature about them, revealed the master's hand to me, as clearly as the more pretentious picture on which he was then working.

"You have read my book, they tell me?"

"Yes, M. Couture, and I admire it; for it is so simple, so easy to be understood."

This seemed to please him.

But I find I have allowed myself to gossip on, and have not given you as yet any of those foretastes of the book which I promised myself should be the staple of this article. I want, by these foretastes, to interest Americans in this work which, by the simple wisdom of its maxims, the result of thirty years' work and experience, is eminently fitted to be a guide to young artists. Then, too, it is dedicated to America. M. Couture has a real sympathy and admiration for our vigorous, ever-growing country. Some of his favorite pupils were Americans, and of late years, most of the pictures which have left his easel have been purchased by our wealthy countrymen. I cannot resist the temptation of telling you an anecdote à propos, which I heard from a reliable source, and which is very characteristic:

A New York amateur went to M. Couture, and bespoke a picture. But the artist was probably in a lazy mood, and the picture lagged. Some friends of the New York gentleman warned him that it was often years before Couture would finish a commission, as he never worked unless the fancy took him.

"But," added one of them, "he is a strictly honorable man; attack him from that point, and you will have your picture."

So the amateur, writing a very polite note to the artist, enclosed the sum agreed upon as the price of the picture.

Before long, panting and puffing from the unusual exertion, Couture rushed to the gentleman's apartments, exclaiming, as soon as he could get breath:

"But you other Americans, you are a people of very singular customs! Here; what for you send me the pay before you get the picture?"

"O M. Couture! I have such perfect faith in your honor."

The artist stopped, seemed to think it over a few moments, then exclaimed:

"You shall have it, your picture!"

Accordingly, shortly after, the picture was finished and delivered.

In his original and clever introduction he says:

"I am an unlearned man; I know nothing; having had no instruction, I feel that I can inspire sympathy, only by a profound sincerity. Can a man, owing what he has only to his battle of life, his observations, and the shreds of knowledge and glimpses of books which came to him like real godsends, inspire interest? I doubt it, and I am even pretty sure that many people will find it preposterous that one should dare to write a book without having gone though the necessary studies. To these persons I will answer by my book itself wherein I try to prove that in everything a simple, sincere expression of sentiment is preferable to a learned expression thereof; for this plain reason, that men, getting their instruction through books are apt to forget, in the multiplicity of documents which absorb them, the good and true road—nature; to such I will say, 'You have the university on your side; well, as for me, I have my God, and do not fear you.' …

"It would be well, I think, to reassure the humble. Therefore, I say, have faith in your soul; follow your God who is within you, express what he inspires, and do not fear to oppose your divine lights to the horrible Chinese lanterns of the university. Enlighten and guide in your turn those who would restrain you by ridicule.

"If you are a farmer, speak of the products of the earth; if you are a business man, speak of that business which you understand; if you are an artist, speak of your art. Do not fear the inelegance of your language; it will always be excellent. Whatever you may say, you who understand that of which you speak, you can never express yourself more foolishly than those who make an art of words. …

"I compare myself, in my literary mishaps, to a man surprised in a storm. He seeks a refuge to save the brightness of his boots; but the hour of rendezvous is close at hand, and it still pours. He makes a dash, keeping close to the houses; the rain redoubles its fury, and he is glad to find shelter under a porte-cochère. There he stoops and examines himself; his boots have lost their lustre, his pantaloons are covered with mud; a porter, companion of his misfortune, has wiped the load of vegetables he carried, on his back. The irreproachableness of his attire is gone; he need no longer protect it; he accepts his fate bravely, and ceases to concern himself. He starts with a firm, grave step, and, as a first success, obtains the admiration of others less brave. Encouraged in his new resolution, he walks on unheeding the water which rises above the ankle; he comes to a torrent; he throws himself in without hesitation, and swimming, reaches the other side; another step, and he pulls the doorbell. The door opens. What a triumph! Misfortune has crowned him with her poetic charms. He is surrounded, cared for, and soon finds himself clad in comfortable clothes, with his feet in the host's slippers; he enlivens the guests with the recital of his Odyssey.

"This is my portrait, dear reader; all bespattered with ink, I come to ask you to take me in.

…

"Let us return now to that which has given me courage to write.

"I received my second lesson from the greatest writer of the age. Madame George Sand was good enough to give me a seat in her box, to hear the Champi. You know that in this charming play, a young lover wants to speak too well to her he loves; he has prepared his discourse with such care, and has so many fine things to say, that, when the decisive moment comes, all his ideas get inextricably mixed; the lover soon perceives that he is talking very badly and that his defeat is owing to his unlucky head; fortunately for him, however, his heart is on fire, and will be heard; then he speaks as he feels, and you know if he speaks well!"

So much for the introduction; now let us turn to the real object of his book—artistic instruction. I am sure all those who have felt the difficulties to be undergone by all beginners in art, will feel grateful to M. Couture for the simple, concise way in which he explains what the experience of many years has taught him. They will observe how carefully he avoids any fine phrases which seem to say much, and which in reality merely serve to bewilder the student. Listen to what he says of

Elementary Drawing.

"What is to be done in order to draw well?

"Place yourself in front of the object to be represented; have good tools, which must be kept neat and clean; look at what you see with much greater attention than at your own reproduction of it; keep—pardon my arithmetic—three quarters of an eye for the model, and one quarter for the drawing.

"Commence your drawing from a first distance, compare those which follow, making them subservient to the first.

"Establish either an imaginary or a real horizontal and perpendicular line before the objects to be represented; this means is an excellent guide which should always be adhered to.

"When, by slight indications, you have determined, established your places, look at nature with your eyes half closed. This manner of looking simplifies objects; details disappear; you then perceive nothing but the great divisions of light and shade. Then establish your masses; when these are correctly placed, open your eyes completely, and add the details, but with great moderation.

"Establish what I call dominants for your lights and shades. Look at your model attentively, and ask yourself which is its strongest light, and place it on your drawing there, where it is in nature; as, by this means you establish a dominant, you must of course, not exceed it; all other lights must be subordinate to it. The same thing must be said, the same calculation must be made, for the shadows; rub in your strongest vigor, your most intense black; then use it as a guide, a diapason, in order to find the value of your different shadows and half-tints."

Nothing can be more to the point, more simple than this, and surely M. Couture exemplifies what he says in his introduction: that what is felt strongly, and understood clearly, will be expressed with equal strength and clearness. He goes on to say with regard to

Elementary Principles Of
Drawing From Nature.

"You will only be able to copy the mobile objects of nature, when you are very certain of finding your places with rapidity; the means are always the same, but their application is more difficult. Therefore constant practice is necessary. A musician would say to you, Scales, more scales! and I say to you, Draw, draw incessantly! Draw from morning to night, in order to exercise your eye, and to acquire a steady hand."

The practical part of his book, M. Couture enlivens and illustrates by anecdotes taken from his own experience; these are the pictures by which, principally, he seeks to convey instruction. I will translate one of them for you:

"A young German entered my atelier to perfect himself, as he said, in his art; he made, as a beginning, a drawing which showed much technical ability.

"I complimented him on his cleverness, but at the same time told him that he had not copied his model faithfully, and that it would give me great pleasure to see his talent dedicated to the service of nature.

"'But indeed, sir,' said the young man, 'I assure you that I copied with the greatest exactitude.'

"'You think so; did you look at your model very attentively?'

"'Yes, sir, I did.'

"'It may be so,' and while talking, I turned his drawing around. 'With whom did you study in Germany?'

"The conversation continued—then looking at the model who was standing, I said to him:

"'That is a superb model of yours; beautiful form, fine color, is it not so, what think you?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'See now, how the light inundates the chest; evidently that is the most luminous part of the body.'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Are you certain of it?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Then show me.'

"'See,' said he showing me the part where the light struck most forcibly; 'it is evidently there, that the most brilliant spot is found.'

"'I am willing to believe, and perceive with pleasure, that to a skilful hand you join a sound judgment. Decidedly you have a delicate perception of the value of light and shade; you will be able to render me great services. Let us see now, which is the most luminous point in your drawing.'

"Not seeing my purpose, he replied with great naivete that it was found on the knee.

"'It is not possible.'

"'Yes, sir; permit me to observe to you that if one were to compare that light to the other lights of the drawing, this one would be found to be decidedly the brightest.'

"'Very well, then; why is your light not placed as it is in nature? You see very clearly that it is found on the chest, and you put it on the knee; why not on the heel? And you will tell me that you copy your model faithfully! You will allow me to tell you that you have paid no attention to your differences of light. … Very well; one may easily make mistakes;' and I once more turned his drawing around. 'You have great painters in Germany. Overbeck, Cornelius, Kaulbach, all have talent of a high order. … Oh! just see how, at this moment, the model is well lighted; what brightness; what vigor in the shadows! See that hair; it is like velvet, and the shadows of the head, how transparent and strong; it reminds one of Titian; do you not think so? the crisping hair, matted; the blood rising to the head and the throat; all this is splendid in color, and is of far greater importance than all the rest. What think you? Suppose we turn your drawing to see if you have rendered the effect we have just been admiring. Let us see! Why, it is singular; you have forgotten that too!'

"'Yes, sir. I see it now.'

"'You see your head is colorless, and gives the idea, of papier-mache; you have the same fault in your shadows as in your lights. … In your work you compared nothing; absorbed by details, you saw them only; drawing small parts, you forgot the rest, and went on blindly.'

……

Occupations Of A Young Artist
Outside Of His Art.

"'You know it now; you are to draw morning, noon, and night; you have to bedaub a great many canvases, to use up a great many colors, and that for a long time. These exercises, these gymnastics not being very fatiguing, you can make good use of this period, to improve your mind with reading good books; the old classics, and our French classics too, it is well to study. But for you, artist, there are certain authors which I wish to point out to you, and which you will find of great use. Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Molière, Cervantes, Rousseau, Bernardin de Sainte Pierre.

"In the first three, you will find grand lessons, useful to your art. Homer gives us primitive simplicity; Virgil, rhythm; Shakespeare, passion. Molière, too, will make you understand how you may ally fine language, beauty of form, to the expression of truth.

"Read a great deal; absorb much; you are young, you will find digestion easy.

"Keep good company, and frequent especially the society of young men already advanced in art.

"Above all, beware of wanting to appear more than you really are; beware especially of using the sentiments of others, instead of your own; there is ruin; there, is darkness. Dare to be yourself: there is light. Be truly Christian; soften your heart; above all, be humble; in the art of painting, humility is your greatest strength.

……

"Being prepared by excellent reading, give your studies a good direction. Be careful to avoid ugliness.

"You should always carry about with you a small sketch-book, and dash in, with a few lines, the beauties which impress you; any striking effects, natural poses, etc. Do not forget to make yourself ant, bee; work indefatigably, and make for yourself, as soon as possible, a treasure-house of abundance. Exercise yourself early in composition, but always with elements gathered from your own experience.

"Form the habit of absolute truth." ….

Notice how in the foregoing admirable passages, the author inculcates the spirit of truth, as the fundamental principle of all art. This has proved the secret of his own success; his honest, child-like faith in nature, and his simple earnestness in copying it, are noticeable in all his works. It would be well if our young artists took this lesson to heart. We have talent in our country, great talent even; but it has no stamp of individuality; it imitates, it is half afraid of being original, therefore it stops short of greatness. This perhaps is the case with other things beside painting, and plausible excuses are to be found for it; we are a young nation, composed of heterogeneous elements; this is true, but we shall not thoroughly command the respect of the nations, and take our proper place among them, until, as they say of young folks, our character is more formed. Then we shall see more earnest truthfulness in everything. Art will take shape and consistency, and we shall hear people talk of the American school as an established fact, like those of France, Belgium, England, etc. This exposition year has naturally been one of comparison. It is a grand thought to have all the schools brought together, to compete for superiority. Our place in the huge building is a small one, and though there are clever pictures in the American art department, yet we shall have to make immense progress, before we conquer a place by the side of the French and Belgians. But our time will come, I feel confident.

But I must interrupt my patriotic prophecies, and let you enjoy, as I did, this anecdote of Béranger. I select it from others, for I thought it would be interesting, both as giving an insight into the artist's theory, and as affording a life-like glimpse of a great poet. Couture relates it à propos to his remarks on portrait-painting; of the necessity under which the artist labors, of being two men in one; of amusing, enlivening his sitter, of bringing out his best expression, so that the light of the inner man may shine through the features; and at the same time of being the artist, watchful, eager, earnest, with his mind intent on his work; catching the gleams of intelligence he evokes, and transfixing them to the canvas.

There are but few who possess this quality.

Béranger.

"I was urged to paint a portrait of Béranger. This I did not care to do. I had a great admiration for his talent and for his character; I feared that seeing him, becoming acquainted with his person, might lower the ideal I had formed of him. …

"At last a charming letter from Madame Sand, which was to serve as an introduction, decides me; I start, and soon find myself in Rue d'Enfer.

"I ask the concierge for M. Béranger. 'The right-hand staircase, there, in the court.' I direct my steps toward said staircase, ascend; before long I am stopped by a door; I. knock. Shuffling steps are heard, an old man appears, wrapped in a gray dressing-gown made of some common stuff.

"'M. Béranger?'

"'I am he.'

"While answering, he held his door tight, leaving but a small opening.

"'What do you want?'

"It would have been easy to present my letter of introduction; but I had had the evil thought to keep it. It was a precious autograph, signed with a very celebrated name. In it, it is true, I was judged in terms far too flattering, but one willingly abides by such kindly exagerations. In it too, my favorite poet was spoken of—the temptation was too strong to be resisted. I began to expiate my fault; I stammered a few words; I showed the paper and crayon which I had brought with which to make my drawing, for it was necessary to add action to words, so hostile was the aspect of the great man … alas! my defeat was complete, the door was closing. …

"'No sir,' he said, 'it is disagreeable to me; there are many portraits of me: among the number some are excellent; make use of these portraits, and leave me in peace.'

"Once more the door seemed on the point of being shut; all was lost.

"'Well, M. Béranger, I only get what I deserve, for I have been guilty of a bad action; I was to have given you a letter; I kept it. I thought, so great was my vanity, that I could present myself without its aid, and commit this petty theft. I am punished, and it is but just.'

"I turned to go, covered with confusion and shame; the door opens.

"'What is your name?'

"I turned to answer him.

"'My name is Couture.'

"'You are not Couture who painted the Décadence des Romains!'

"'Yes, sir.'

"I felt myself seized by my waistcoat, pulled in violently, then I heard the terrible door close but this time I was inside, pushed up against the wall of the entry.

"'You Couture? is it possible? you so young; why, what was I about to do—I was going to shut the door in your face!'

"'It was already done, M. Béranger.'

"'But don't you know that I adore you? don't you know that it is one of the dreams of my old age to have my portrait by you? do I consent to sit? why, I am entirely at your disposition!'

"Then, taking me by the hand, he presented me to his venerable wife, saying:

"'This is Couture, and I was on the point of sending him about his business.'

"I was deeply touched by this reception. When we were both somewhat calmed, I told him that I could make the drawing at his house, that I had brought all that was necessary, and that I should be happy to spare him the trouble of coming to me. He would listen to nothing, put himself entirely at my service, insisted that I should name my own day and hour; and at the appointed day and hour, he was at my room.

"It was no small affair, for an old man to come all the way from the Rue d'Enfer to the Barrière Blanche, where I then resided. He was very tired, and said to me with a benevolent smile:

"'Dear child, for any other but you. … But come, where shall I place myself? what if I were to take a little nap?—for I have come a very long way.'

"I pulled up an arm-chair; he sat down, and soon fell asleep. …

"I walked about my painting-room on tiptoe, for fear of waking him; then I came near him to examine him as he slept. He had a vast brain; by its size, by its form, it was easy to guess the greatness of the mind. The lower part of the face, however, seemed out of harmony with the upper. …

"My task was becoming difficult; to remain true to simple reality, to give to the public the image of an intelligence in its decline, was not what I wished. What should I do? I was making these reflections when he woke. I looked at him for some time fixedly, and I saw his eyelids lift themselves one after the other, and then fall again over his eyes. …

"However, let us not despair; let us try; … this was my method.

"'Monsieur de Béranger, are you acquainted with that new air composed for your Vieux Caporal?'

"'No,' said he, 'some fellows came to sing it to me; there were several of them; they said they had brought a piano in a carriage. As I chose my airs myself, and I doubt whether others can choose better than I, I do not wish to encourage these encroachments on my work. Therefore I refused to receive them.'

"'Oh! I know how you refuse like favors! Well, allow me to tell you that you were in the wrong, for the air composed for the thing seems to me more dramatic than the one you chose; since circumstances are favorable to it, and that it need not disturb you, I will sing you the Vieux Caporal.' And I sang.

"'Yes, you are right, it is very well; sing me the second verse. … Why, it is charming; sing it all to me; I like to hear you sing.'

"At the end of the song, his face had changed its character; his eyelids were sustained, and let me see his bright eyes, which seemed to be the light of that fine mind. I kept him in this atmosphere which made him young again; I made him live in the past; I spoke to him of Manuel, his friend. Ah! then, it was a veritable resurrection. We were then in 1850, but through the enchantment of memory, he returned to the struggles of the Restoration of 1820, thirty years' difference; well, I saw them disappear as by magic. I saw this genius revive! He would get up, walk about, come back to his seat, speaking of them, of the two hundred and twenty-one, as though they were still there; the arrows of Charles X., the aim reached, the plaudits of the crowds—he seemed to hear it all. Béranger was before me. All I had to do was to copy. …

"I have not been able to resist the temptation of relating an anecdote, doubtless too flattering for me; but on reflection, I have been so tormented by fools, that it is excusable in me to take comfort in the praises of a great mind."

Now let us turn once more to some of his practical instructions. Of color he speaks thus:

"It must not be thought that he who reproduces color exactly is a co

"Like the true draughtsman, the true colorist purifies, embellishes.

"If he is a true artist, he will bring in his coloring all the laws of art: Discrimination, development, idealization.

"I cannot help thinking of our critics who, in their innocence, always make sharply defined divisions of colorists and draughtsmen; being persuaded that a draughtsman cannot be a colorist, and that a colorist can never be a draughtsman. They carry this so far that when a picture seems to them detestable in color, they feel compelled to find great qualities of drawing in it; but if, on the contrary, a work is presented, with incontestable beauties of drawing, it is necessary, and you will never be able to convince them of the contrary, that the picture should be wanting in color.

"They do not know that all is in all, and that the value of execution in a picture is in just proportion with its conception.

"With great artists, there is a certain choice, an impulse toward a particular beauty which captivates them; like real lovers, they sacrifice every thing to their passion; but, understand it well; sacrifice is not abandonment.

"With great masters, such as Raphael, Poussin, the absence of coloring is a voluntary surrender; besides, they have a coloring peculiar to themselves, and of a superior order. …

"Now, let us turn toward the colorists. Rubens presents himself as their king; but king though he be, he is not the equal of Raphael, who is a veritable angel."

In their compositions, Couture would have his disciples follow nature, and the instincts of their own hearts. He wages war against what he calls dead art, as seen in the works of certain French artists who tried to imitate the Greeks exclusively. As he strongly expresses it, they disinterred a dead body, and galvanized it to give it the appearance of life. He would have the pleasing scenes of common life represented and spiritualized; nature, in her dewy, morning aspect, studied and loved. He says to them: "Be French, be patriotic, be of your own times; create a strong, healthy, modern school; do not imitate the Greeks; become their equals." It must not be thought from this that the antique is not appreciated; on the contrary, the young artist is urged, after he has become comparatively skilled in drawing—not before—to study the antique very seriously, and to take it as the invariable basis of all his works. But what Couture urges principally is originality and truthfulness. While pressing the earnest study of nature, he says:

"Love, that is the great secret; love enlightens. We are often surprised at the tenderness of parents for their children, and at the qualities which they see in them. We think they are mistaken, whereas it is we who are mistaken. …

"Read a book with but little attention; look over the first few pages; skip twenty pages, then forty; hasten to the conclusion at once. What pleasure will you find in such reading? You would certainly not have the audacity to judge of that work; you would surely wait until you were more familiar with it. But now, when, with a good will, you read page by page, the work captivates you, and you leave it only when it is finished; then you say this work is admirable!

"It will be the same with nature, if you read it page by page.

"I do not think I am mistaken when I say that we are on the eve of seeing French high art spring into life. I see guarantees of it in the return of our young artists to nature; they are, if I may so express myself, at the first stage of that road which leads to the highest beauties."

Somewhere about the middle of his book, our original author stops for a familiar chat, "between the acts," as he calls it but, after a few pages, the conversation gets more serious again, and he gives a critique, or perhaps, more properly speaking, an essay, on various artists. After wandering in the sixteenth century with Jean Goujon—through the medium of a marvellously learned coachman—he comes back to modern times, and speaks of Ingres, Delacroix, and Decamps. It is not my province to question his opinion of these artists; my task is to give you a correct idea of his manner of doing so; therefore, leaving the critic to be criticised by his brother artists, which is pretty sure to happen, I choose his essay on the last named, Decamps, for translation. It gives a good idea of his style, and in it he has put away his severity, and indulges in genuine admiration, which is certainly pleasanter to listen to.

Decamps.

"Let us now turn toward the light, toward the sunshine; let us speak of Decamps—that abridgment of all picturesque qualities.

"In the grasp of his genius, he comprises everything; he makes himself the echo of all.

"His pictures speak to me of Salvator, Teniers, Poussin, Titian, Rembrandt, Phidias …. they tell the story of our world: infancy, old age, poverty, sumptuous wealth, war in all its horrors, smiling hills and dales, shady villas. Here, the intimacy of the home-circle, there the tempests of the imagination. The Shakespeare of painters, he translates everything into an adorable language of his own; he reminds one of the masters, without copying them; he sings of nature and exalts it; everything with him becomes lovable, charming, or terrible; a mere nothing, a simple knife on a table, painted by this marvellous genius, will awaken in one's mind, a whole poem; less still, a simple line, a dash of his pencil, is enchanting.

"I had the happiness of seeing this great artist; he was very simple. Living principally in the country, his dress was that of a somewhat careless sportsman; he was rather below the medium height; his head had great delicacy of outline, and was of rather a nervous character; he was fair; our sous stamped with the effigy of Napoleon III., when somewhat worn, remind one strikingly of Decamps. He was usually supposed to be a great sportsman; but I, who knew him, and observed him with the attention which my admiration of him inspired, noticed that his hunting was a mere pretext. I would often see him stop in a plain, lift his gun, take aim; one expected an explosion; not at all; after a short pause, he would replace the gun on his shoulder, and go on his way, to recommence the same game a little later. He nearly always returned with an empty game-bag to the inn of the 'Great Conqueror,' in the little village of Verberie; there he would take an old account-book, which he used as an album, and with whatever he happened to find, he would retrace the effects which he had observed during his pauses. I had several of these precious pages in my possession, but, unfortunately for me, they were stolen.

"I remember also, that when we were conversing, after the evening repast, he would roll little balls of bread in his fingers, then, with pieces of matches, which he added to his paste, kneaded in a peculiar manner, he would fashion charming little figures. I remember, in particular, a hunter followed by his dog; the man seemed weighed down by the game he carried; the tired dog followed his master with drooping ears. It was charming: this extraordinary artist gave life to everything he touched.

"He was fond of painting in the studios of his brother artists. It was at the room of a mutual friend that I saw him make the preparation of his beautiful picture, Cheveaux de Hallage, which is now at the Louvre. His sketch was reddish, solidly massed in; he used a great deal of brown, red, and burnt sienna in his preparations.

"He made a drawing before me, one day. The most adorable ass's head sprang into life from under his fingers. As soon as one of the creature's ears was abandoned by the artist, it seemed to quiver with impatience at having been restrained; all appeared by degrees, progressively and completely formed. I saw in their order of succession, a real head, a real neck, a real body covered with its roughened hair; the good creature seemed to have a name, a real character; one might have written its history.

"I have been talking of his amusements; but when he attempted higher productions, when, for example, he created his 'Bataille des Cimbres'—I speak of the large drawing, that in which an enormous chariot is dragged by oxen—what energy! what grandeur! Those men live; one shares their ardor, or their fears; one wants to help, to push, to save the women and children. See them yonder: they come, they crush everything that comes in their way. What a formidable mass! clouds of dust arise from under their horses' hoofs, and go to join the clouds in the heavens, which are numerous, and armed for combat, like the soldiers that cover the earth. And up yonder, do you see? No. Where? There; no, still higher … that cloud of ravens … they await the end of the day of slaughter.

"It is no longer a drawing; it is no longer a painting; it is an animated world which appears as by magic, transformed into wondrous marble, gilded by the sun of Greece. One looks, admires; one comes back to it many times, without ever tiring; one leaves so beautiful a thing with regret, to dream of it at night!

"I should like to be able to talk to you of his Joseph, of Sampson, of the Café Turc, of the Singes Cuisiniers, of the Supplice des Crochets, and of all his other wonders; but that would lead me too far; so, regretfully, I stop.

"Decamps was of an organization rare in the art of painting; he had the power of giving the qualities of greatness to small pictures. One might cite the small works of Rubens and Rembrandt, and even of the great Italian painters; but all these geniuses seemed to grow less in proportion to the restricted dimensions of their canvases. But Decamps is as great in his small pictures as in his more important works.

"I might hesitate to pronounce myself for or against certain artists. But, as for this one, I maintain that he will always keep a high place in the art of painting."

……

In the foregoing selections I have endeavored to give some idea of the author's manner; of his vigor, his clearness, his originality. With all its irregularity, this book is, I feel sure, destined to take an important place in art-literature. As a handbook of painting, it is most useful, and I trust soon to see a clear, truthful translation make it familiar to our American public. I should like it to be in the hands of every art-student.

Good advice, critiques on various artists, critiques on the schools, familiar chit-chat, occasional reveries on nature, full of poetry, anecdotes—all thrown together with a certain picturesque confusion, warm from the author's heart and brain: such is this book. It is a mirror of the man. Couture talks as he writes, and writes as he talks; if other merits are denied it, it certainly has that of perfect sincerity, and surely, in these days of artificiality, that is a great charm; so great a charm indeed, that many beside artists would find pleasure in reading it. And now, trusting that I have said enough to arouse some curiosity and interest in this work, I will let the author say his

Farewell!

"I have animated your courage; your sympathy, I feel, increases my strength; I have within me what it is well to possess—hope. Shall I live to see true French art born into this world? … I see it coming. Ah! how happy you are to be young! "Everything announces it to me, this art of which I dreamed; the indifference of the public for that which exists is a good sign; why, indeed, should it, so full of life, feel an interest in this painting, issued from the grave?

"Look around you, and produce pictures. As for me, I have followed the order of nature; I have planted in you the good seed of truth; I doubt not but that it will germinate. By simplifying the means, by shielding yourself from the embarrassment of complications, you will do a useful underground burrowing. When the young shoot springs from the earth, cover it with a protecting mantle; this shelter, this protection, this tutor, must be your instinct. Grow, become strong, cover yourself with leaves and fruits, and give refreshment and shade."

---

Magas; or, Long Ago.
A Tale Of The Early Times.

Chapter I.

Yes, long ago, about the year of grace 55, that is, about four years after the great apostle of the Gentiles had preached at Athens, a small but evidently a select band of worshippers was pouring forth from a small temple on the banks of the Illissus, situated but a short distance from that renowned city. This temple was dedicated to the sacred nine who preside over art, science, music, poetry, and dancing. There had been a special festival that day, and numerous pleasing exhibitions had been brought before the gratified audience. The mystic dance of the sacred sisterhood had typified most gracefully the harmony and union that reign among the muses; and peace presiding, showed that under her mild rule alone, the harmonies of earth could work their glorious mission to civilize and cheer the drooping heart of man. No sacrifice of blood was here admitted, but music, choral song, and recitation; poems, plays, and oratorical displays; tableaux and dances, symbolized alike the worship rendered, and the honor due to the chaste and favored nine. Therefore was it, that the audience was so select. The populace, which at that time consisted mainly of slaves, were for the most part too coarse and unrefined to appreciate the higher branches of the muses' lore, which were to-day brought forward: the games of the Saturnalia and the mysteries of Cybele were more in accordance with their taste, and, save the few slaves who attended on their masters as a matter of state, or for the sake of fashion, the spectators were of a dignified and refined aspect.

The games or exhibitions were about to close; a solemn dance accompanied by song had proclaimed the benefits to earth, which the sacred nine occasioned by their peaceful rule; and the last strophe ran to the effect:

Here no strifes must warm the veins;
For the muses' sister band
Comes to lighten earthly chains,
Comes to greet you hand in hand:
Science lightens up the land
Where the muses' sceptre rules,
Skilful art instructs the hand,
Strife is banished from their schools.
Chorus: Choral sisters, intertwine,
Sing the praise of muses high;
For the muses are divine;
Swell the anthem to the sky.

The song had ceased when suddenly, as the audience rose, thinking the performance concluded, a thrilling sweep of a lyre unseen arrested their steps; and a voice sweeter and clearer than any heard before sang out these words:

The muse! a myth! is passed away,
With earthly types of things unseen:
'Twas but a cloud—refracting ray,
Rolling the hidden world between
And man's aspiring panting soul!
Man's soul's divine, and yearns to clasp
(Freed from the yoke of earth's control)
That truth, but which eludes the grasp
While veiled in mythic forms unreal!
Awake! the day-star is arisen!
No more shall error's veil conceal
The lustrous, brilliant, light of heaven,
Now streaming, glory to impart
To vivify each human heart.

The crowd which had suddenly paused, now wondered, and turned to every side to look for the singer: in vain; the owner of that splendid voice was not to be seen, any more than the player on the silver-toned lute.

A strange influence had passed over the throng, unawares: it was hushed, awed, mesmerized as it were into another state of feeling. Exultation had passed away; bewilderment, questioning followed. What did it mean? myth! truth! glory! was it philosophy? was it poetry? or did an oracle speak? Man's soul divine! that was Platonism; but Plato's school, at its height some four hundred years previous, was now at a discount. Many sects discussed and disputed: but truth? Truth seemed as far off as ever; or rather it seemed a plaything or a something which men used to sharpen their wits on, that they might display their argumentative skill, in the intellectual arena; but for practical conclusions, for a real rule of life, which might be used as an every-day necessity, pooh! this was not to be thought of!

The Grecian world, such of it as was free, that is, not actually enslaved, not actually held as another man's chattel, was speculative and fond of discussion, but it does not appear that these discussions did much in forwarding the progress of truth among the majority of the population; for that majority were slaves—slaves, held for the most part in bondage of mind as well as of body. The dignity of manhood among these was unknown; and the purity, beauty, and loveliness of woman were sacrificed remorselessly to tyranny of the vilest description. We can but shudder as we recall doings even in the palmiest days of Grecian freedom, over which modesty compels the historian to cast a veil; for Grecian freedom even then meant freedom to the few; the workers, the toiling multitude were slaves—slaves who, when their numbers increased so as to alarm their masters, might be sacrificed en masse, as was too often the case. They were slaves not only in body, but in intelligence, for it was deemed dangerous to develop mind. Plato himself had been of this opinion, giving as his reason, "Lest they should learn to resist."

Philosophy was made for the few, for the free only, because only the free could carry out in practice the truths of the soul's divinity which philosophy pointed to.

The words which the poet Lucan puts into the mouth of Caesar, had long been acted upon even by the "wise and good" of the pagan world, though they dared not so openly express it. "Humanum paucis vivit genus." (Lucan. Phar.) "The human race exists but for the few." The workers, (that is, the slaves,) in other words, the majority, were utterly incapable of being benefited by the teachings of the sages of ancient Greece, not only by position, but in consequence of the dulness of intellect which the long maintenance of that position had occasioned. Poetry and philosophy condemned them as beings of an inferior order. Homer says in his Odys. 17, "that Jupiter has deprived slaves of half their mind;" and in Plato we find the following: "It is said that in the mind of slaves there is nothing sound or complete; and that a prudent man ought not to trust that class of persons." The consequence of this teaching was, that they were held to be a mean race, little elevated above the brute, and born for the convenience of their masters, and subject to their caprices; so the worship of the muses was, to them, with rare exceptions, a thing out of the question. These rare exceptions did, however, exist, and produced anomalous positions not always fruitful in morality.

The congregation of worshippers issuing from the temple of the muses was then composed almost entirely of the "free," although some few of the slaves attended their masters for purposes of state or style. Among the throng were three young nobles thus attended; and, as they issued from the edifice, they made their way to a grove in the rear, to which only a privileged few had access, and stationing their attendants within call, yet at some little distance, they stretched themselves in the shade, and began to discuss the adventure. Their names were Magas, Critias, and Pierus.

"The voice was heavenly," said Critias, "and the music faultless; but who could be the player, who the singer?"

"Nay, surely the divine Euterpe, aided by the equally divine Erato," said Pierus; "who but a muse could thus conceal herself?"

"But," interposed Magas, "you forget that the muse would not prophesy her own overthrow. The words we heard to-day portended that the worship was to be supplanted by another of a higher kind; it pronounced the muse 'a myth,' a type of something unseen, unreal in herself, but pointing to a reality. Now, what can this be?"

"I know not," said Critias, "unless it is also a revelation to make known the unknown, as that strange man said who preached here some four or five years ago; his words made an impression on me which haunts me still."

"What man? what did he say?" asked Pierus.

"His name was Paul," said Critias. "He was a small man; a Jew of Tarsus, (think of a Jew pretending to philosophy!) He came here and preached at first in the streets; then he was brought to the Areopagus; my father was one of the council, and he took me with him to hear what the new man would say. The place was thronged, but most of the fathers took the matter lightly enough. The impression he made was on the lowly, the slaves. They took his words to heart and pondered them. I have caught some of them at times repeating them to each other, as if they were oracles. His theory seems made for them especially."

"But what good will it do them?" asked Pierus.

"Or him who dares foment sedition among them?" broke in Magas. "He and others of his ilk had better beware. I remember something of the circumstance since you mention it, but my father thought it an attempt to raise an insurrection among the slaves. The preacher did well to take himself off."

"I do not see any harm he could do," said Critias.

"Harm!" answered Magas. "Harm! Epicurean that you are, will you never see harm till you hear the house is on fire? I tell you there is harm; he preaches 'equality' to slaves, and what good can come of that?"

"What harm, rather? The poor varlets know it for a fact that they are not the equals of their masters." "They are not equal; no, they are not equal," said Magas vehemently; "and they must never be permitted to think they are. Their numbers might give trouble to us if they imbibed such an idea, while to them it could be of no real service. They have muscle, but not intellect. Set them free, they would soon be at loggerheads among themselves."

"Intellectual greatness," said Critias, "is rare even among freemen; but some slaves have manifested that there is no deficiency in that respect."

"Some rare exceptions, perhaps, but that proves nothing. Aristotle says, and truly: 'The woman and the slave are distinguished by nature herself.'"

"Yes," said Pierus, "I remember the passage. He says, 'If we compare man to woman, we find that the first is superior, therefore he commands; the woman is inferior, therefore she obeys. The same thing ought to take place among all men. Thus it is that those among them who are as inferior with respect to others as the body is with respect to the soul, and the animal to man; those whose powers principally consist in the use of the body, (the only service that can be obtained from them,) they are naturally slaves.'"

"There can be no doubt about it," said Magas. "The very bodies of the slaves are different from ours; they are strong, muscular, and fitted for labor; ours are slimmer, more refined, more sensitive."

"I cannot see how you can build any argument on that," said Critias; "your grand philosopher, even while he asserts a different conformation of body to exist between the freeman and the slave, admits that it sometimes happens that to a freeman is given the body of a slave, and to a slave the soul of a freeman. I have often found it so. I know some very despicable citizens; and I have found some noble sentiments in slaves."

"Sentiments," said Magas; "what business have slaves with sentiments?"

Critias laughed, and said, "Slaves have sentiment, and memory, and reflection; by whose permission I do not know; but how are you to get rid of it? That is the question."

"They must be kept in their place and made to work," said Magas.

"But," said Pierus, "we are losing sight of the question as to what the last singer intended to convey. Who do you think it was?"

"Some follower of the Jew Paul; I know no other sect who would dare call the muse a myth."

"I would give something to know what the Jewish fellow did say; do you remember?" asked Pierus.

"I think I can summon some one who does." And Critias called aloud to a slave, who drew near.

"Merion, do you remember the Jew preacher?"

"I do, most honored master."

"Do you remember what he said?"

"I have his words by heart, master," replied the slave.

"By heart!" muttered Magas, "by Jove; but, you did worship the fellow!"

"Well," rejoined Critias, "and what did he say?"

The man addressed was a gray-headed, stolid-looking person; his intelligence on common matters was not deemed great; he was, however, esteemed faithful, trustworthy, and affectionate. A sudden glow lighted up his features, as his master spoke to him, and he became animated with an expression that puzzled his hearers: he stood forth, threw out his right arm, and, in the attitude of an orator impressed with the dignity and importance of the subject, delivered word for word the speech made by the great apostle of the Gentiles in the hall of the Areopagus.

"My masters," said the slave, "when the preacher Paul was brought to the court of the Areopagites, and questioned concerning the new doctrine he was giving out to men, he stood in the midst of Mars' Hill and said:

"'Ye men of Athens, I perceive that, in all things, ye are too superstitious; for as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I beheld an altar with this inscription, To the unknown God; whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. God that made the world and all things therein, seeing he is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands; neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed anything, seeing he giveth to all life and breath, and all things; and hath made of ONE BLOOD all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth; and hath determined the times appointed, and the bounds of their habitations; that they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel after him, and find him; though he be not far from every one of us. For in him we live, and move, and have our being; as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also his offspring.'"

"Stop," said Magas; "where did you find that written?"

"It was not written, noble sir; it was said," returned the slave.

"Said! five years ago, and you repeat it now, word for word like a task," said Magas; "did you hear it more than once?"

"Yes, sir; some who can write, took it down, and read it to me more than once."

"You cannot read?"

"I cannot."

Magas frowned and rose to his feet. "A dangerous doctrine for our slaves to have by heart," he muttered; then turning to his companions he said, "Send the varlets home; let us have our talk to ourselves."

At a sign from the masters, the servitors left the premises, and Magas resumed: "Do you leave that slave at large, Critias, with such a doctrine as that in his bosom?"

"And why not?" asked Critias; "poor, harmless old Merion, the unwearied attendant on my father's infirmities; his place could not be supplied in our household for his weight in gold."

"You did not weigh that speech then; did not observe its tendencies?"

"Well, yes, it is pretty poetry enough, rhapsodical enough, but, like all rhapsody, harmless."

"Harmless! Did you watch the other slaves as the old man lighted up; as he said: 'All mankind were of one blood, all the offspring of God,' master as well as slave! I am sure these varlets understood it so. Such teaching as that must kindle fire in men's hearts, must engender rebellion. That one slave, as you see, has got that and more by heart; do you think it has no effect on him?"

"No bad effect, at least; he is a good and faithful servant."

"No bad effect! why, man, do you not see that if our slaves once believe they are of one blood with their masters, that they are equally the offspring of God, they will arise and assert their dignity? Then who will do the work?"

"You are troubling yourself very unnecessarily, my dear Magas; there is no slave in our household who works so well or so faithfully as Merion."

"He's but biding his time," said Magas; "take care. The man that, being unlettered, got that doctrine by heart, did so because he cherished it, made much of it; he has studied its meaning, depend upon it; and the meaning to him must be freedom."

"You did not hear him out," said Critias; "he believes in a judgment after death, which shall right the wrongs of earth; the followers of this Jew have the oddest ways in the world. You know the Lady Damaris?"

Magas nodded assent.

"Well," rejoined Critias, "I have heard her assert that 'work' has a sanctifying tendency, whatever that means; and they say she takes pains to instruct her slaves in this singular philosophy; she often works with them, and treats them as if they were poor relations she was bound to see well provided for. Strange! isn't it?"

"Strange enough," said Magas, "but more dangerous than strange. The woman must be looked to."

"Nay, leave her to regulate her own household," said Critias, laughing: "if you want to make war, try your skill with men. There's Dionysius, who deserted the Areopagus soon after that preacher was here; he has freed some of his slaves, taught others to read, and teaches this new philosophy to all."

"The man must be crazed," said Magas; "these strange notions must end by revolutionizing society if they are allowed to get to a head. They must be put a stop to. Whom shall we have to work for us, when the slave thinks himself as good as his master?"

"We will work for ourselves then," said Critias. "And perhaps that would not be so very hard, after all. In the early days of the republic, our forefathers tilled their own fields; they were perhaps as happy as we are now."

"Are you also touched with this mania?" asked Magas, stamping his foot fiercely. "I say the slaves are ours by right of conquest; and, for the glory of my ancestral race, I'll keep my feet upon their necks."

"As the Roman keeps his foot on ours, eh, Magas? Could we rouse the slaves to noble deeds, through the working of noble thoughts, we might free our country yet."

Magas looked gloomier yet.

"Come not upon that strain," said he; "we cannot overrule fate! Ha! what was that?"

'Twas a sweep of the same lute, a silver chord of melody that caught his ear. Breathlessly the trio listened, and soon these words pealed forth:

He comes! He comes in clouds of glory!
Haste, oh! haste to meet thy God!
Angels, hymn the thrilling story,
How on earth his footsteps trod;
How those footsteps, faint and weary,
Tracked thy path, thy soul to save.
Quit, oh! quit sin's path, so dreary,
Plunge thee in the saving waves.
Ransomed is thy soul for ever,
Ransomed by his precious blood,
If but now from sin thou sever,
Cleansed in the redeeming flood.
Haste! oh haste! he comes to save thee,
Then no more let sin enslave thee!

"'Tis the same voice!" Why did Magas turn pale as he said so? The trio separated to search the glades, the bushes, the thickets; every nook and corner was probed in vain. The muse, mentor, genius, or spirit, whatever it might be, was not to be found.

Chapter II.

"Chione!"

"Magas!"

"Have I found thee at last?"

"Alas!"

Chione covered her face with her hands, her bosom heaved, tears trickled through her fingers; it was no gladsome greeting that she bestowed on her lover, yet it was she who had sought this interview, or rather had given opportunity for it, even while pretending to hide herself, and to shun the meeting she sought.

"A whole year have you been invisible, my Chione; a whole year have I sought you in vain; and, now that we meet, you do not throw your-self into my arms for very joy; you turn away, and your eyes are filled with tears!"

"Alas!"

"You are not glad to see me, Chione; you have lost your love for me!"

"Oh! would it were so, Magas! would that the sight of you did not move me thus; would I had never known you! Leave me, Magas!"

"Leave you now when, after a year's search, I have found you! Leave you! What is the meaning of this altered tone? Are you no longer Chione? Am I not Magas?"

"It is true," said Chione, in a very low voice; "it is true I am the slave Chione."

"The slave! O Chione! have I not promised you freedom if you but return my love? Last year did I not bid you become to me what Aspasia was to Pericles—my oracle, my inspirer, my divinity! and you left me; and now that your glowing charms have become endued even with a higher lustre; that your voice can at will enkindle each noble emotion while it thrills the soul with ecstasy, now your empire over me is all but overpowering."

"Yet you did not recognize me when I sang in the temple a week ago."

"Not at first; the theme was so strange; it troubled me. But at the first tone uttered in the grove I knew you; I felt that you, and you only, could cause such a thrill as then agitated my whole being. O Chione! you were ever to me as the tenth muse. Say what has caused your absence?"

"Did you heed the words of the last hymn?"

"No, no. How should I? I knew the voice, the voice of my own Chione, who had so long and so mysteriously disappeared, and I listened in the hope of discovering her retreat. I searched, but searched in vain; yet I felt sure it was to me she sang. Now tell me truly, did you not recognize me and address yourself to me?"

"Had you heard the words, you would not have asked that question."

"But I did not hear them. Even of the first I heard nothing distinctly, or at least, nothing that I could understand; of the last, not a word; only the tones, the tones of my Chione, singing as of yore to enchant me; it sounded like a wail for other days; a promise, perhaps, for happier ones to come."

"It was neither; it was an invitation to a higher life!"

"A higher life! Yes, a life of love with thee, my Chione. A life of that sublime love where Cupid does honor to the muses, and becomes himself the inspirer of sacred song. Yes, thou wilt not deny it, though, for these eight days past, thou hast kept me on the search for thee. Thou sawest me in the temple, and to me were thy songs directed. I am sure of it; for the serving maidens assured me 'twas a full year since thou hadst thyself ministered there, and none had seen thee since save the daughter of the philosopher of the day, save Lotis only! She acknowledged the lute accompaniment, and that it was thy voice it accompanied."

"The traitress!"

"Nay, she was hard pressed; she could scarcely avoid the avowal. But now, cease this dallying and confess the truth: was not thy song for me?"

But Chione answered no more. Perhaps she was asking that question of her own heart, and could not answer it. She leant against a tree in the grove in which they were standing and sobbed bitterly, but no reply issued from her lips. At this juncture a stately personage approached, whom Magas perceiving, saluted with the respect due to his evident dignity. Chione, with her veil gathered around her, had her features turned toward the tree, her agitation betraying itself, however, by slight convulsions of her frame. The stranger paused, and looked from one to the other. Magas was evidently a stranger to him; but when, surprised at the sudden silence, the maiden for an instant changed her posture, and the stranger uttered, in amazement, the name Chione, she started, gazed distractedly, and, in an instant, fled from the spot like an arrow shot from a bow, so swiftly did she disappear.

Magas would have followed; but the stranger, speaking in a courteous tone, yet with an authority he dared not disobey, inquired: "Is that young damsel of your kindred, my son?"

"Not so, my lord," said Magas; "I knew her a year ago, when she ministered in the temple of the muses. Her ravishing voice then enkindled all hearts; but she disappeared suddenly, and to-day I first encounter her after a long absence."

"She is a slave, as perhaps you know already."

"She would adorn a diadem," fiercely rejoined Magas.

"I see how it is," softly rejoined the elder man; "beware, my son; set not your heart on one beyond your reach. Gold cannot purchase Chione. You will find others as fair, others who will serve you more readily in that very temple from which Chione has been taken. Pursue not one who belongs to another master."

"Who is her master now?" asked Magas impetuously.

"You must forgive me for not answering you," replied the sage; "in your present humor, it would but bring disorder to the state."

"One word," said Magas, springing forward so as to prevent the old man from departing; "one word Is it yourself?"

"It is not, my son," replied the other gently, as, slightly pushing by the young man, he left him with a passing salute.

Magas remained rooted to the spot, knitting his brows and gnashing his teeth with vexation. "So near the goal of all my hopes, and so suddenly foiled; but I will find her yet; and if gold will buy her, well! if not, why, other means must be tried."

……

It is no longer a grove yielding its pleasant shades in the sunny light of the beautiful climate of Greece; it is no longer the impassioned tone of Magas pouring the honeyed tones of flattering love into her ear; the slave is at the feet of her mistress, in the women's apartment of a small but elegantly adorned dwelling near unto the city, and again she is bathed in tears. Yet the voice in which she is addressed is more sorrowful than angry; the tones are rather those of a grieving mother than of an enraged mistress. But there was a decision, a firmness in the voice that told the lady was not to be trifled with.

"What is this I hear of thee, my poor child?"

"Forgive me, dearest lady, forgive me, Lady Damaris."

"It is not a question of personal offence, my Chione; thou hast injured thyself, not me. A year ago, thou didst put on Christ, and vow allegiance to the one true God. Wilt thou now forsake him, to follow thy own passion?"

"I have not forsaken Christ! I will never, never forsake him."

"No? then why dally with the tempter? why seek again what thou hast once abjured? When our holy bishop rescued thee from the service of the pagan altars, at thine own earnest entreaty, and brought thee here, to serve the Lord Jesus, didst thou not renounce paganism, its vices, its crimes, its sweets as well as its bitters?"

"I renounce them still."

"And yet thou goest to a pagan temple, to attract the notice of a young pagan noble, the enemy of our faith!"

"I went not for that purpose, madam, though it ended so. I went to see Lotis, as I told you; she was seeking instruction from me as of yore; you are aware she was my pupil in music."

"And you gave it her, by causing her to help you attract your former admirer; fie! Chione, your tale hangs not well together."

"Lady, believe me, I knew not of the presence of Magas, until I saw him there; I was not thinking of him, until he stood beside the pillar within which I was concealed. It was on a sudden impulse that I acted. Lotis was beside me with her lute; we were both effectually concealed within one of those hollow, vaulted recesses used for emitting the more mysterious sounds of the deities, and which are known to so few that I felt myself doubly secure, when the sight of him who could not see me caused a rush of blood to my head; I gave Lotis a signal, which she obeyed, as thinking, perhaps, I had again a part in the performance as I used to have, and I sang, not of the muse, save as a thing of the past."

"I know you cannot believe in paganism again, Chione," said the lady solemnly; "it is not your head that is likely to be misled, at least not in the first instance. I fear your passions, not your understanding. The rush of blood was, methinks, to your heart, rather than to your head."

"Lady, I love my religion, or I should not have desired to leave the temple; I was honored there."

"Yes, Chione; and here you are not honored in a way that flatters your self-love; and that is why, after a year of trial, you seek the flattery of Magas, rather than the unimpassioned love of your Christian friends. Yet their love is less selfish, more sincere."

"It is cold, cold," muttered Chione. Aloud she said, "Madam, I dare assure you, my faith is as vivid now as it was a year ago."

"My poor child!" said the lady, laying her hand upon Chione's head, "go for to-night; another day, we will resume the subject. You are under the influence of passion at this moment; you know neither your own strength nor your own weakness; you scarcely know what you believe, what you doubt. Your passions are awakened, your self-love aroused, and perhaps wounded. These must be subdued; not by the exercise of the understanding, which is powerless against such formidable enemies; but by faith, which is the exercise of the heart in God; for with the heart man believeth unto justice. [Footnote 58] If, as you say, your faith is as vivid now as it was a year ago, go and exercise it in prayer, and I too will pray with you, my poor child, that our hearts may be fashioned after the pattern shown us in the mount."

[Footnote 58: Rom. x. 10.]

Poor Chione! the tenth muse! with every pulse palpitating to the inspirations of poetical and musical genius—a genius which in her panted for expression, and nourished itself at the shrine of self-love. Poor Chione! bred an orphan in the temple of the muses; gifted with more than ordinary powers of mind, which had been cultivated even by the residence which had been hers from infancy; endowed with grace, beauty, and intelligence; fostered by the praises of Magas, who, from being the patron of the beautiful and interesting child, had become the admirer of the still and ever increasing loveliness of the maiden. Poor Chione! The truths of Christianity unfolded to her by Merion, her uncle, also a slave, at a time when her understanding was about to reject the mockeries of a worship beautiful and fanciful indeed, but sustained by no interior power, appealing to no standard on which she could rely unhesitatingly, had taken hold of her imagination, had captivated her by their beauty, their coherence, their consistency. They were the realization of her fondest dreams, the filling up of the most beautiful pictures that her fancy had ever painted; they were a logical appeal to her understanding; and because they were all these, she adopted them, not beginning to comprehend the interior spirit, not fathoming even to the first degree, the mystery of the cross, that stumbling-block to the Jews, and foolishness to the Greeks. [Footnote 59] Chione's understanding was Christ's, and her imagination also, because the metaphysical propositions of the apostle met her approval, and the poetry and imagery of the church claimed her admiration; but her heart seemed still untouched, her thoughts still centred in herself, her loves and her hatreds still found their source in human passion. She judged all things as yet by a mere outward, human standard; and the tragic scenes recounted in the Gospels but moved her in the same manner, though in a higher degree, as would a tragedy of Sophocles or Euripides. They excited her feelings to admiration, nay to adoration; but for the regulation of the dispositions of her heart, they were not yet brought into play.

[Footnote 59: I Cor. i. 23.]

In fact, she was disappointed in religion, although she did not confess her disappointment even to herself. Up to the time she had become a Christian, all things had ministered to her self-love. When, yielding to the preaching of Merion, (for such it was, although addressed to so limited an audience,) she had besought his intercession to be removed from a place where, as her years increased, her beauty and position as a slave exposed her to danger, she had counted on being appreciated by the society which she entered; and as she had heard of many slaves having been set free by the Christians on account of the esteem in which they were held, she, fancying herself a very superior being to the generality of slaves, (her beauty, grace, and genius having ever called forth such unqualified admiration,) could not but deem that she should soon be accounted well worthy of such an advantage. When, then, she found herself at the age of sixteen, secluded in the household of the Lady Damaris, treated kindly, but not specially indulged; when she saw that her mistress, far from deeming her a prodigy, seemed to find in her serious failings needing correction, and that a probation was deemed necessary ere allowing her to profess the faith; she was more hurt than she permitted to appear: and the seclusion to which she had committed herself, when requesting to be transferred from the muses' temple to the silence and retirement practised by the household of the Lady Damaris, weighed upon her spirit, for it gave no scope to the love of display which excited her genius to pleasurable expression. Her intellectual convictions, indeed, remained unchanged, but her heart sought other interests than those around her; and when it appeared that one after another of the slaves attached to the lady received their freedom, according as they demonstrated to the satisfaction of their mistress that they were likely to make a good use of it, but that no hint was ever given to herself that she might expect a like boon, she began to wax impatient, to tax her mistress with partiality, and finally to raise the question whether she had not a right to free herself from tyranny. Tyranny! The only restraint exercised in her regard was such as a tender mother's vigilance would deem necessary. She saw not that, at her years, the protection of the Lady Damaris was the greatest benefit this world could give her, accompanied as it was by genuine kindness, and an earnest desire to cultivate her heart and her understanding in the right direction.

Freedom! exterior, freedom for a girl of sixteen! this became her dream by night, her exclusive idea by day, and in acting upon the idea, she often violated the rules the noble and charitable lady had laid down for the regulation of her household.

On an occasion of this kind it was that she had visited the muses' temple, saying to herself that it was to give instruction to her former companion, whom she so much desired to meet again. There the sight of Magas had brought back all the flatteries and self-exulting thoughts of former days. She had then refrained from making herself known, for—a slave! and the noble Magas!—her heart revolted at the thought of what such a connection must be! A year ago she had fled from it; her pride had sustained her then; she had called it her virtue. Now she felt the need of his praises; now she longed for his sweet flatteries; the voice of truth had been too harsh for her self-love. She needed adulation, passionate adoration. Would Magas give it her? She had heard his exclamation recognizing her voice: from her hiding-place she had seen the zeal with which he had sought her; and eight days afterward, by dint of watching, she had contrived to meet him as if by accident, as we have seen; and what was to be the result?

Chapter III.

"Chione, my niece; nay, my daughter in Jesus Christ, tell me, for pity's sake, why do I find you here?"

"Uncle, I weary of the tedious routine of our household. I come to woo the naiads and the fauns of early days, for a little relaxation of my spirit."

"The naiads and the fauns! Strange worship for a Christian!"

"Nay, uncle, do not cast religion at me for ever. I mean no harm by speaking in the language of my childhood; and, indeed, I need to recreate my soul; my spirit is fainting away amid the tedium of our ever immaculate household."

"What possible fault can you find with the Lady Damaris?"

"None, none at all, absolutely none. Have I not just said she is immaculate, faultless? too perfect, in fact, fair as the moon and as chaste; ay, and as cold too!"

"Cold! Lady Damaris who has spent her fortune in relieving the indigent, in soothing the sorrows of the mourner, in setting free the slave. Cold! Where, then, will you find the fire of charity?"

"I wish she would set me free!"

"You! Are you not too free already! as witness this unmaidenly step of visiting these glades alone and unprotected? Free! Are you not already as free as is safe for you? is not the Lady Damaris more a mother than a mistress to you? Go to, your labors are too light, your liberty too great, since you know not how to make a better use of it. A Christian maiden should have more reserve."

"What harm is there in sunning myself on the river-banks awhile?"

"None, if that is your object, and that alone, though even so, for one in your condition there might be danger. But, Chione, you do not come here either to woo the naiads or the fauns, or to sun yourself on the riverbanks. You come here to meet one you are bound to avoid, and I come to take you home again."

"By what right?"

"Ay, by what right, base slave?" asked the voice of Magas, as he suddenly came upon the couple. "By what right dare you to interfere with the fairest muse of earth's bright temple? you who have scarcely brains enough to know whether Apollo steers his chariot from east to west or from north to south."

"Noble sir," said Merion respectfully, as if unheedful of the insulting tone in which he was addressed, "I am this maiden's uncle, and seek but to conduct her to a place of safety."

"I will dispense with thine office, by fulfilling it myself; take thyself hence, I say."

Merion looked at Chione, who, with an incomprehensible caprice, settled the dispute by rapidly taking flight in the direction of the abode of the Lady Damaris, thus again leaving Magas foiled at the moment he thought himself certain of an interview; and, what was still more perplexing, leaving him in a state of uncertainty as to whether she desired to grant him an interview or otherwise. He turned fiercely upon Merion:

"Where is the girl flown to? Where does she live?"

"I cannot tell you, noble sir," said the slave, turning away.

"For cannot, say will not," said Magas, arresting him. "I insist on knowing where Chione lives."

"You cannot know it from me, sir," said Merion, breaking away, while fortunately some persons appearing in sight, forbade the noble Magas from renewing a contest with another person's servant; and thus the faithful guardian of Chione effected his escape.

It was, however, to the house of Dionysius he betook himself to consult with him concerning the measures to be taken to insure the safety of his wayward niece.

It was a difficult matter for the learned but simple-hearted bishop, known in the city as Dionysius the Areopagite, to interfere in. The conversion of this noble-hearted prelate had, in his own case, been so sincere, so entire, it was difficult for him to comprehend an adhesion given partly to the intellectual, partly to the moral bearings of the religion of Christ, an adhesion which more resembled a philosophical adoption of tenets, than the surrender of the whole being into the keeping of his divine Lord, such as he understood to be the requirement demanded of himself when, under the tuition of the great apostle, he had learned to put on Christ. The gospel had come to him, not in word only, but also in power, and in the Holy Spirit, and in much assurance. [Footnote 60] It filled his soul, not only with its intellectual delights, with its wondrous solutions of the dread mysteries of existence, with its harmonious developments and sublime manifestations, but with interior light. "Faith" was to him as, alas! it is to so few, "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." [Footnote 61] It animated him wholly; it was a part of himself; he could say with the great apostle in very truth, "I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God who loved me, and gave himself for me." [Footnote 62]

[Footnote 60: Thes. i. 5.]

[Footnote 61: Heb. xi. 1.]

[Footnote 62: Gal. ii. 20.]

But Dionysius was the pastor of souls; he dared not refuse to come to the assistance of one of his flock, albeit, that one was a child, a slave, and that the request for his interference came to him also from a slave. The true-hearted Merion was worthy of his highest love; long since would he have redeemed him, and associated him in his labors of love, but that the slave ever put him off, pointing out to him others on whom the material chain weighed more heavily, so that its wearers were fainting under the burden, while he walked erect. The truth had made him free [Footnote 63] in soul, and he was not willing to encroach on the limited means placed at the disposal of the bishop by the faithful, while so many of the weaker brethren needed help to sustain their fainting steps. Besides, as a slave, bearing his own burden, Merion possessed a greater influence among his own class than he would have done had he accepted the purchase of his liberty. "The poor and lowly," said he to Dionysius, "have many advantages which you in higher stations wot not of. Truth is not veiled from them by politeness, or by the conventionalism of society; they see things as they are, unmasked, and view themselves also by another light than that which is shed on the man to whom everybody bows. I have often thought, my lord, that they need an extraordinary degree of grace, who are thus placed above the multitude. Since our Lord has declared that it is the 'poor who are blessed,' and he himself asks, 'How can ye believe, ye who receive honor one of another?' [Footnote 64] Believe me, then, my kind friend, there is a greater blessing in a position to which no worldly honor is attached than to others; at least for poor souls like mine, who cannot claim the extraordinary graces needed to clear away the mists which obscure the light from the great ones of this world." Thus pleaded Merion against his own advancement, to which the bishop replied:

[Footnote 63: St. John viii. 32.]

[Footnote 64: St. John v. 44.]

"It is true, my Merion, we must all become 'poor in spirit,' giving all honor to God alone, for the good that is in us, since all that man has done is to pervert his gifts."

"And the more wonderful, the more exalted the gifts, the more they are perverted. Chione's beauty and talent are already turning her away from the religion she has professed."

"Nay, not so bad as that, my Merion. Neither is it the beauty or the talent that are in fault. These are God's gifts to Chione. It is the human self-love, the self-centralization which craves homage and admiration, that are to blame. It is the repetition of the primeval sin, the wilful separation of the soul from God, for the sake of inordinate gratification. But Chione has worshipped Christ. She will see her error and repent."

"Would I could think so," sighed the slave.

"Nay, now it is you who are wanting in confidence, my good friend. Chione is the child of your prayer. You begot her in the Lord, and He will preserve her for you. How, is not so plain. May be, she will fall. Gifts like hers too often lack humility, and humility, the foundation of the Christian character, sometimes needs a fall, in order to produce it. Faith you have already won for her, from God. Now set yourself to intercede for her again, to win other gifts which shall render her faith available to salvation. Ask for her, humility, at any price of suffering to yourself or her. God will grant your prayer, be assured of that, my friend. Now, as to what we can do for the exterior circumstance, let me know your wishes."

"Is it possible to remove her from the path of that Magas?"

"We might try; though, rich and ardent as he is, he would be apt to trace her to any place within our power to send her. I have friends at Corinth. Should you be satisfied to send her there?"

"They are Christians?"

"Else I would not have named them. But, reflect, to none is she as dear as she is to you. None will take the same interest in her, watch over her—"

"But she will be out of the way of Magas."

"Her person will. How her mind will be affected, is another question. We cannot change the affections or annihilate desires by change of place. But it shall be as you wish."

"Will the Lady Damaris consent?"

"You know, full well, that the welfare of her household, temporal and eternal, is the object of that lady's constant solicitude. She will agree to anything she deems will promote it."

……

Chione was scarcely surprised when she was told that she was to be sent to Corinth. Nay, to do her justice, she was not altogether grieved. She knew her danger. Her pride and self-respect revolted from any degrading connection with Magas. And what other could she hope for? Neither as a slave nor as a freed-woman could Magas elevate her to the rank of his wife. He himself had proposed Aspasia for her model; but Aspasia to a Christian maiden! Dazzling as was the ideal, not for a moment did Chione suffer herself to believe it could be hers. Why, then, did she hover around her destruction, as a moth hovers around the candle? Why did her thoughts perpetually dwell on Magas as the only one who understood her, the sole being on earth who could appreciate her? Why had she endeavored, why did she still endeavor, to attract his attention the more that she knew the burning passion which fired his impetuous and vehement nature?

Chione felt but too truly the inward conflict of her soul. She loved Magas. She could not conceal herself from him if he were near—could not even avoid him. The attraction was too great. But at Corinth she could forget him, at Corinth other objects would occupy her, at Corinth she would again learn to love Christ. So to Corinth she consented to go, making so little opposition to the measure, that Merion half persuaded himself he had overrated her weakness.

Chione was conveyed away stealthily, in company with a Christian family who were making the journey homeward. Days elapsed; and Magas watched in vain, set spies in vain. Chione was not to be met with.

"The girl must be ill, or bewitched," said he. "Three appearances, and nothing heard of her! A whole year since I saw her before, and she so changed, beautified, and silenced when we met again! What can it mean?"

"What can what mean, Magas, that you are here talking to yourself, and flinging yourself about like a madman?"

"Critias!"

"Yes; it is long since we met. What have you been doing since?"

"Tracing the girl who imposed upon us in the muses' temple."

"What! not forgotten that yet?"

"No. It was scarcely an adventure to be forgotten, save by one who cares for nothing, like yourself."

"Well, what have you discovered?"

"This much, at least: the girl is Merion's niece."

"So! Then we may suppose her rhapsodies referred to the new sect?"

"Yes; and that they must be looked to. I wish you would let me question your slave awhile."

"Question all you like; but I warn you, Merion is not likely to answer you unless he likes."

"Then we can apply the torture?"

"No! not to Merion! no! Not on a subject which interferes with no one, even though you have assumed it as a cobweb to your brain. Merion is a faithful servant. I consent to no torture while he continues such."

"Not if you learn that he is concerned in hatching a conspiracy against the state?"

"Magas, I think you are taking leave of your senses."

But Magas was in love, and would neither hear reason nor be turned away from his purpose. Merion would tell him nothing. He said only that he had not seen the girl for many days, and that it was not his business to inquire to what place she had been sent. Lotis, the daughter of the principal philosopher of the day, had been her frequent companion in early days, but of late had seen her little, and, since the adventure in the temple, not at all. Lotis was suspected to know the name of Chione's owner; but, if she did, she kept it to herself. Months passed; and then Magas disappeared also, and, for a while, was not again heard of in Athens.

Continued.

---